Onyx City (The Lazarus Longman Chronicles Book 3) (2 page)

“I assume you have employed all the requisite security measures.”

“Naturally. But we have something else in mind. We need to sink a man deep into the red hot spots in the East End. A sort of spy who can ferry us information on the movements of these groups and let us know if something big is coming down the pipeline.”

Lazarus studied his former employer intently. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that I might be this man.”

“It’s perhaps not as exciting as your previous assignments but it’s a damn sight less dangerous. It’s intelligence gathering. A small job to bring you back into the fold. My trust in you hasn’t been completely swept away, Longman, although there are some in my circles who believe you should have been shot as a traitor. I want to prove them wrong. You’re a damn good agent and I don’t want to lose you. You just need a bit of a chance to prove to us that you’re still our man.”

“For God’s sake, Morton!” Lazarus exclaimed. “I’m an antiquarian! A treasure hunter as your man outside was so keen to tell me. I’m not a spy or an undercover policeman. Why on earth do you want me for this thing?”

“For the reasons I have just outlined. And because all my other agents are tied up with more important matters.”

“Oh, thank you very much.”

“Come off it, I didn’t mean it like that. I want you back on my go-to list and you need to show us that you’ve still got what it takes. Besides, don’t you speak Hebrew?”

“I can read Hebrew should the occasion call.”

“Can’t you apply yourself and see if you can’t get an ear for it? It would be of enormous help in infiltrating the Jewish radical clubs.”

“Jews in London generally speak Yiddish. Quite different.”

“Well, I understand Hebrew is still used in some of their pamphlets and propaganda. Anyway, you wouldn’t be working alone. I’ve arranged for a man to accompany you on your journey into the underworld. Sort of a bodyguard. You’d be the one in charge, there’s no mistake about that. I’d like to introduce you tomorrow morning.”

“Morton, I still don’t think I’m the man. And I’m very busy at the moment.”

“Giving lectures and chasing down obscure books? This is national security, man! And this isn’t just some plebs beating the war drum. We’ve reason to believe that the socialists are becoming extremely organized. The Russians may be involved.”

Lazarus’s heart skipped a beat. For all he knew about Russia, its mention only stirred up one thought in his mind these days.
Katarina
.

“The revolutionist movement is even bigger in Moscow and Saint Petersburg,” Morton went on. “And intelligence says that the reds over there have been shipping hardcore rabble-rousers to London to influence and stir things up even more. Something’s got to be done or we’ll lose control over our own bloody city!”

“And am I to identify these Russians?” Lazarus asked.

“If you have the chance. But you are to report on all developments in socialist circles, Russians, Jews or anybody else.”

Russians, thought Lazarus, remembering Katarina’s pale breasts and the scent of her perfume, crumpled sheets smelling of their sweat in a Parisian hotel room. Of course it was ludicrous to think that by coming into contact with some of her countrymen he would somehow be drawn closer to her. As the niece of a high-ranking member of the Okhrana, Katarina was no revolutionary. But for some reason, the mention of Russians made the whole business seem not altogether unappealing.

“Who is this fellow I’m to be working with?” he asked.

Chapter Two

In which a fine performance is given at the Lyceum Theatre

By the time Lazarus left Morton’s office it was too late to pursue his cobbler in Stepney. That appointment must wait for another day. And besides, he had tickets to the theatre that night and had to go home and get changed.
The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde
was showing at the Lyceum. The production had opened in Boston the year previously and was currently enjoying great success in London. But Lazarus’s interest in the play was more than a mere desire for an evening’s entertainment. He had heard of the novella by R. L. Stevenson but had not read it, his academic pursuits leaving little time for the reading of anything but scholarly works. His main reason for choosing this production in particular was that he knew the actor who played both Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

He had met Richard Mansfield in New York, shortly after his business in the American Southwest had come to its climax. It was in the wake of Katarina’s first departure from his life that he had found himself wandering Broadway, frequenting the saloons and gambling dens of that city of dreamers and philanthropists. He was mustering the courage to return home to London and take up service with the bureau again, postponing the inevitable in a haze of whiskey and opium smoke, when he ran into Mansfield outside of Barnum’s American Museum.

A British actor and theater manager with the Union Square Theatre Company, Mansfield was an eccentric, outgoing and endlessly energetic fellow. They had taken to each other immediately and began seeking adventure in New York’s shadiest corners; two limeys in a cultural mixing pot that exuded every exotic odor known to man. Lazarus would often attend Mansfield’s plays on Broadway and marvel at how the man could perform after a night of girls and liquor. After the shows they would hit the town once more.

Lazarus had rarely had the time to miss old friends in the years that had followed. It was only now in this seeming lull in his life that he began to dwell on past acquaintances and the fun times they had shared. And here was Richard Mansfield himself in London.

The hansom dropped Lazarus off at the pillared entrance to the Lyceum Theatre where a mass of patrons had already gathered. He squeezed past the throng of gentlemen in top hats and overcoats and ladies in their finest evening wear, to the lobby where he was taken to his velvet-lined box seat that overlooked the left of the stage. He rose and smiled politely as the elderly couple with whom he was to be sharing the box with sidled in and made themselves comfortable. He looked down on the rows of seats as they gradually filled up. It was to be a full house, confirming the hype the play had elicited from the press and public despite its mixed reviews.

While many journals applauded the play’s impressive effects and grotesques, others accused it of relying on spectacle over substance and even claimed Mansfield was a ‘mechanical hack’ who, while impressively frightening as the villainous Mr. Hyde, failed to draw much sympathy as the monster’s well-meaning alter ego Dr. Jekyll.

Lazarus cared little for reviews. He was here to see his friend and marvel at his much-touted on stage transformation into the walking embodiment of evil that was rumored to have women fainting in the aisles.

Neither the play nor Mansfield’s performance disappointed. When he was hunched over, ape-like, as the hideous Mr. Hyde, the audience gasped in horror. It was hard to see that Jekyll and Hyde were played by the same man, as the latter’s face was contorted into such a grimace of primal rage, that Lazarus began to doubt the theater company’s claims that it was all performance and make up and that no mechanical or illusionary devices were used.

The real shocking part of the play came at the pivotal part of the story, where Mr. Hyde murders an elderly politician by the name of Danvers Carew. Hyde attacked the man brutally with a silver-topped cane, and unleashed such a barrage of blows and stamped on the poor fellow with such ferocity, that several men in the audience leaped out of their seats in alarm, deeming that the violence on stage had surpassed the theatrical.

But when the curtain fell to thunderous applause, the audience rose in a standing ovation. As the bulk of them made their way to the exits, Lazarus descended to the theatre floor and asked around for the manager. He was directed to a thick-set Irishman by the name of Stoker who was modestly accepting the compliments of a pair of theatergoers.

“Excuse me, sir,” Lazarus said once the couple had departed. “I am an old friend of Mr. Mansfield. He doesn’t know I’m here but I would be most obliged if you could allow me backstage to speak with him.”

The man scratched his thick, dark beard. “He’s a busy man, sir, being both actor and producer for this play, but I suppose if you’re an old friend he won’t mind a quick visit. But be mindful, he’s usually very tired after a performance.”

Lazarus frowned as he was shown backstage. Mansfield had always been buzzing after a performance and ready for a night on the town. The rooms backstage were bustling with activity as stagehands hurried back and forth carrying costumes and props, and actors in various stages of undress chatted and congratulated each other in loud voices.

He eventually found his way to Mansfield’s room, but as he approached he heard raised voices coming from within. He held back, not wishing to intrude on anything, but was able to snatch a snippet of the argument. There was a good deal of cursing. Suddenly the door flew open and a tall, thin man with white powder in his hair stormed out, rudely pushing past Lazarus on his way. He recognized him as the fellow who had played Danvers Carew, and caught a faint smear of blood on his lower lip that had begun to dry.

Lazarus knocked on the door and peered in to see Mansfield collapsed in a chair, evidently exhausted, either from the strains of his performance or the recent altercation with his fellow thespian. He turned to look at Lazarus and then leaped up in surprised joy, the worry lines beneath his greasepaint melting away.

“Lazarus, my dear fellow!” he exclaimed, grabbing him by the hand and reaching around to shut the door behind him. “What a welcome surprise this is! Please, take a seat in my humble quarters!” He drew up a battered old chair—a twin to his own—and offered it to Lazarus before flopping back down. He began rummaging around in the cupboard underneath his dressing mirror.

“What the devil was all that about?” Lazarus asked, nodding at the closed door.

“Oh, I fear that I may have overdone my performance tonight,” Mansfield replied, producing a half empty bottle of cognac and two glasses. “I do hope that Patrick forgives me. He has warned me of it before, but this night I seemed to have hurt him. My cane struck his lip, although I always try to pull my blows.”

“Accidents happen,” said Lazarus. “You were really very good. Quite remarkable.”

“Thank you, old friend. You don’t know how timely your visit is. I am in need of a good companion at the moment.”

“Are you all right, Richard?” Lazarus asked. He had noticed Mansfield’s hands shaking almost uncontrollably as he drank his cognac quicker than was considered civilized. The man seemed on the verge of some sort of breakdown.

“I fear that I am not well at all, Lazarus. I have been having such frightful nightmares that leave me in the early hours drenched in sweat and gasping for breath.”

“You overwork yourself. You always throw yourself into things, and this acting lark is starting to take it out of you.”

“It’s not just the nightmares. Some days I feel that I am barely in control of myself. Rage grips me at odd times of the day for no apparent reason. I feel as if there is some hideous thing bubbling under my skin, threatening to consume me at any moment. You saw me on stage tonight. I almost lost myself up there and injured poor Patrick.”

“Well look at the part you are playing,” said Lazarus. “Or should I say parts. You’ve embarked upon a disturbing character study of this Jekyll and his alter ego, and applied yourself so intensely that it has begun to affect you.”

“I am not so sure that I don’t have an alter ego of my own.”

“How do you mean?”

“Lazarus, you are an old friend and I trust you absolutely. I know that we haven’t seen much of each other in recent years, but I hope that time has not eroded the trust between us.”

“I can guarantee that it hasn’t.”

“Then what I am about to tell you must remain between us at all costs. My career, my life even, hangs on your confidence.”

“Good God, man, spit it out. There has never been any cause for mistrust between us.”

“I must tell you that upon two occasions in recent weeks, I have not woken in my own bed.”

“Oh?” said Lazarus with a sly grin. “I don’t remember that was ever a cause for concern for you back in New York.”

Mansfield did not acknowledge the jest. “I have woken in circumstances most alarming. In an old lime oast down river, my hands and clothes bloodied.”

“A lime oast?”

He nodded. “All alone on the dusty floor of some derelict building without the slightest idea of how I got there.”

“Have you ever been there before?”

“No, never! On the first occasion it took me the best part of the morning to find out where I was and how I was to get home, which I did… eventually. But what has me flummoxed is how and why I wound up there. And whose blood was on my hands.”

“It sounds to me that you took a heavy night one evening and got into a fistfight that you don’t remember,” said Lazarus. “It’s happened to both of us before.”

Mansfield didn’t answer, but reached to pick up a newspaper that had been folded over to display one page in particular. “Have you heard about this?” he said, passing Lazarus the crumpled paper. It was the Evening News dated the eighth of September, which was two days previous.

ANOTHER EAST END MURDER

EARLY THIS MORNING IN SPITALFIELDS.

A WOMAN'S THROAT CUT AND

HER BODY RIPPED OPEN.

THE LEATHER APRON FOUND.

TERRIBLE DETAILS.

THE ENTRAILS AND THE

HEART CUT OUT.

Lazarus had heard of the Whitechapel Murders. Indeed it was hard to avoid the grisly details of what had been happening in the East End in the past month. Three prostitutes had been butchered in the most grotesque manner, all in the slum district of Whitechapel. The papers were full of it, claiming the killings to be the work of one man and a decided maniac at that.

“Yes, I’ve read of this,” Lazarus murmured, setting the paper aside.

Mansfield regarded him with bloodshot eyes. “Polly Nicols, killed in Buck’s Row on August the thirty-first. Annie Chapman, killed in Hanbury Street, September eighth. I awoke in Limehouse directly after these two murders. And I have no memories of those nights. Anything could have happened! I could have done anything...”

“Lord, man!” Lazarus exclaimed. “Surely you are not suggesting...”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting!” he cried. “I’m bloody scared, Lazarus! I don’t know what’s happening to me!”

“But this is paranoid fantasy! Coincidence and nothing more. And besides, you only mentioned two of the killings. The papers say that there was a third; the earliest. Martha Tabram was also killed in early August. Did you wake in Limehouse then, too?”

“No, I...”

“There, you see? What you are suggesting is simply not credible.”

“I don’t know what’s credible these days. All I know is that something frightful is happening to me that I have absolutely no control over.”

“You need rest and perhaps a little diversion,” Lazarus said. “How about you come out to dinner with me tonight?”

“I would relish a chance to catch up, but I am to dine with Stoker, the manager, tonight. We are to discuss the play’s performance and further promotion. You are welcome to join us, but I fear that all the business talk would bore you.”

“Not at all. That is, if you are sure that I am not intruding.”

“Certainly not. We would be most pleased to have you with us. Now, just let me finish getting changed and I’ll be with you.”

Lazarus left Mansfield in his dressing room and hung around the stage door, watching the stage hands and gas men pack up for the night. All of the artistes had already left. Eventually Mansfield emerged, looking much more composed than he was moments previously. He wore his dinner suit with a white cravat and well-polished boots.

“Ah, you have met my associate Mr. Stoker, Lazarus?”

“Yes,” Lazarus replied as the theatre manager came over to them. “I introduced myself earlier.”

“Bram here is the finest house manager in all England,” Mansfield said. “And also an accomplished writer.”

“A hobby at present,” said Stoker.

“A hobby with encouraging prospects! And my good friend Lazarus Longman here is a world-famous explorer.”

“Yes, I do remember reading something of your exploits in the papers,” Stoker said. “Something to do with Great Zimbabwe?”

“That’s right,” said Lazarus.

“That’s just the tip of his exploits,” Mansfield went on. “He’s been to India, the Americas and Egypt too, if I’m not mistaken?”